


Du Noir naît la Lumière

by RedSnow1



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Awesome Clara Oswin Oswald, Blind Twelfth Doctor, Clara comes back, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Fluff, Impossible Girl, Love, Memories, Memory Loss, Post-Episode: s10e05 Oxygen, Protectiveness, Remember me - Freeform, Reunions, Season/Series 10, Sonic Screwdriver, Stargazing, The Doctor (Doctor Who) is a Teacher, Twelfth Doctor Era, Twelfth Doctor Whump, impossible love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 06:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29995482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSnow1/pseuds/RedSnow1
Summary: “How can you stargaze if you are blind?” She says, amused.“You don’t need to see the beauty of the universe with your eyes. You can see it with your heart.”/OS/
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	Du Noir naît la Lumière

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my friends!
> 
> Long time no see! But worry not, I'm working on a couple of stories for you!  
> In today's menu, a sad combo of Blind!Doctor and Clara Oswald! I hope you will enjoy it! Please let me know if you did!
> 
> Massive thank you to @Persephonia1, my dear friend who has been incredibly supportive!
> 
> This story was not betaed, so I apologize for the mistakes you may find. I am French and try my best!
> 
> Now, this being said, I'll leave you to your reading! Enjoy and let me know what you've thought about it ;)

Everything is so dark. 

And he is terrified. He fumbles, searches around him. Nothing. The darkness is swallowing him. His specs are nowhere to be found. They have slipped from his nose, fallen on the ground and he can’t find them. And the darkness — the darkness is overwhelming. He sees shadows and monsters, lurking. And even worse than this : he sees memories. He recalls how he lied on his bed, back in Gallifrey. He always retired to the barn to cry. He had been crying that day, weeping his way into the world. They said he was too sensitive, and perhaps they were right. Too much heart had always been his problem, and quite literally. He remembers being scared of the monster under his bed — and a voice, whispering in his ear.  _ Fear doesn’t have to make you cruel or cowardly. _ He was as scared back then as he is now. That makes him vulnerable. He can’t be vulnerable when the world relies on him. When the fate of the universe weighs on his shoulders. So he sits there, in the dark. He could cry but he doesn’t. He is not a child anymore. He pretends he is unafraid of the dark but he is not deceiving anyone. Not even himself. He remains perfectly still, half-hoping his sonic glasses will come back to him, one way or another.  _ One last trick, come on _ . He mustn’t give up to fear. Fear makes him cruel and cowardly. Fear never makes him kind, despite what the voice had told him.

He can hear the world around him. There is an owl hooting. A gentle breeze is rattling the leaves in the trees. He can feel the ground beneath his hand, the asphalt, cold and sad. The air smells of spring, of a renewed nature, of blossoming flowers. The air tastes of fresh cut grass and detergent. He doesn’t know whether he likes it or not. He tries focusing on his senses to calm down, to will the fear away. It doesn’t work. His hearts are racing in his chest, adrenaline pumping in his veins. He feels in danger, at the mercy of every creature he has ever encountered. A Dalek could come: how would he resist it? How would he protect his precious little humans from their blasters? He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be capable to. And that thought alone was worse than any death he has ever experienced.

The Doctor could cry. He doesn’t. Crying won’t bring his sight back. Crying won’t save him. But lord knows it is tempting to just succumb to fear. To allow it seize him. He thinks about it — what else can he do in the dark? He is lost, he is scared. And he wants to give in.

And then he perceives it. Hope. The clicking of heels, approaching. The steps are nothing like Bill or Nardole’s. They are shorter, quicker, determined. He freezes, unsure of who it might be. Perhaps one of his students, wondering around St Luke’s? Could it be — ? No, Missy is safely trapped inside the vault with nowhere to escape. He doesn’t know whether to be relieved about that or not. The clicking sound is getting closer, and suddenly stop by his side. He doesn’t move and barely breathes. He doesn’t know where to look, so he maintains his head down in shame.

“These must be yours.” A woman says.

He flinches. Her voice — her voice is so foreign and yet so familiar. It’s soft, decisive and quite soothing. His hearts skip a beat. His mind is racing. It has a sense of déjà-vu, and yet, he doesn’t recognize the woman’s fragrance, or her voice. He feels odd, torn apart. But then, she softly takes his hand, and puts his sonic specs in them. Their fingers graze ever so slightly and he fights against the urge to hold on to her hand. He wants to — God he needs to. And he doesn’t understand. He hates not understanding as much as not seeing. He doesn’t know why his body is responding to her that way. He doesn’t recognize her. 

The Doctor thanks her and puts them on. Relief overflows his entire being as the darkness fades away. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. It doesn’t allow him to see all, but enough. He can make out her silhouette. Crouched down next to him, she is facing him. She is relatively petite, her hair is cut in a short bob and her face… Her face is impossibly round. She appears to be wearing a dress, somehow, he feels it is blue. He doesn’t perceive the color of her eyes, the unfolding of her smile, but he can almost guess it. Something in his head tells him she is very pretty, and he believes it. He turns towards her and smiles shyly. He doesn’t like to be caught off guard, especially in his most vulnerable moment. But he feels grateful she has found him.

“How did this happen to you?” She whispers.

Her voice is tender, almost worried. She reaches out to him, her hand close to his face. He flinches. For a moment it almost seems she wants to graze his cheek. But she doesn’t. Instead, she removes a wayward curl away from his face. Her light touch burns his skin, leaving an indelible mark on both of his hearts. He doesn’t move, taken aback by such familiarity and fondness. The woman acts as if they knew each other and that troubles him. And yet, a part of him longs for her touch. He wants to feel her. He needs to. But her hand falls back to her side and she sighs resignedly. The Doctor clears his throat, tousling his hair. He doesn’t know how to act around her. She is making him nervous and unbelievably — joyful?

“I defended one of my students —”  _ In space _ , he almost says. But he figures that would arouse her suspicion. “ — from gas. We were at a women’s march.”

He shoots her his most convincing smile. Well, It isn’t technically a lie. He has accompanied Bill to a march before. A few months back. “Gay Pride” she had called it. All rainbows and cheerful people: he had enjoyed himself that day. It had been all about love and acceptance. The woman by his nods absentmindedly. 

“You are kind. And very brave.” She states.

The Doctor winces. That word in her mouth — that sinful word. He closes his eyes in pain.  _ Brave _ . His friends were always brave, and they inevitably died. And for a minute, his mind takes him to a different time, a different place. He is standing in the middle of a street — and there she is. He doesn’t remember her, but he knows she was dear to him. She was his world — and then she died. Her screams echoes in his head every time he tries to sleep.

And her voice, distorted..

_ Let me be brave. _

“Please, don’t call me that.” He whispers faintly.

The Doctor is shaking. But he hides it from her. The woman sighs, and takes place on the ground, next to him. Their knees are practically touching. There’s something about her that calms him down : the heat she exudes makes him feel comfortable. He doesn’t grasp why she is here, why she doesn’t leave. All he knows is how much he craves for her warmth. How he wants to keep hearing her voice. How he wants her to stay by his side. 

His hearts are racing in his chest and he has no control over them. It’s like his body recognizes her while his mind doesn’t. And it hurts.

“ So , what are you doing here on your own?” She says, changing the subject.

And he is grateful she does. At least it keeps his mind occupied. He feels he is poking memories best left forgotten. He shrugs, and readjusts his glasses. He doesn’t really know why he came here of all the places. He could have gone for a little trip inside the TARDIS. Instead, he had ended up here. The top of St Luke’s building was hardly the best sight in the universe. And yet — here he is, moping about. Perhaps it was because it was so close to the stars. Perhaps it was because he needed to be alone for a while.

“Stargazing.” He merely says.

She giggles. And it’s the most beautiful sound he has ever heard. His skin tingles from the mere sound of it. He desires her to laugh for the rest of his days. He wants to retain that memory forever. He would sacrifice anything for that, he finds himself thinking. But as soon as it is over, he forgets. And that puzzles him. How could he forget so quickly?

“How can you stargaze if you are blind?” She says, amused.

He doesn’t have to see it to imagine the grin on her face. He smiles too. He likes to feel clever. He turns towards the sky, where the stars are shining high and proud. He doesn’t need to perceive them to know they are here. He knows their emplacement by heart by now, their colors, their names. He knows everything there is to know about them.

“You don’t need to see the beauty of the universe with your eyes. You can see it with your heart.”

Just like his heart knows she is pretty, that her eyes are brown, and that her smile could light up an entire galaxy. She gasps, ever so softly. Something shifts in her demeanor. She is no longer amused but nostalgic. Her bodily responses change, she starts to shake.  _ It’s absurd _ , he thinks. He doesn’t hear her heart, nor her breathing. It’s like she has none -- which is impossible, he reasons. The Doctor shakes his head. It must be all the ambient noises, preventing him from hearing it. She turns her head towards him. He doesn’t have to visualize her to know that her eyes are shimmering.

“ Tell me about the beauty of the universe.” She asks gently.

She is practically begging, and her voice wavers. But he does. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t refuse her that. He tells her all about the stars, their births and deaths. He points them out to her, and he hopes she is impressed. He describes them to her, almost as he could see. He retells what he has seen, where he has travelled to. And she listens. She listens intently to his foolish stories. She doesn’t laugh, she doesn’t smile. She just listens. And the air fills with salt. He can smell the tears in her eyes. For a moment, one brief moment, he remembers. He remembers that particular fragrance, that feeling. He stops, and turns around, seemingly distressed.

“Clara?” He says, his body betraying his own mind.

Her name escapes from his mouth before he even thinks about it. Like a reflex. It sounds desperate and needy, and maybe he is. He shakes his head. This is silly. He doesn’t know why he called her this. He doesn’t even know the woman’s name, or anything about her. He didn’t ask, thinking he wouldn’t remember. People had never been in area. He doesn’t know her, but he knows she is not Clara. Clara is dead, Clara is gone, and most importantly, he doesn’t remember her. 

All he remembers is that her name was Clara and that he loved her.

The woman doesn’t reply. And it takes him a second to feel that her warmth is gone. And when he turns his head, the spot where she sat is empty. He didn’t hear her leave. He sighs sadly and massages his temple. Every so often, he thinks he is losing it, seeing things that are not there. Perhaps it is his conditions. Perhaps she was a ghost, or a memory.

_ Memories are so much worse in the dark _ , he thinks. 

Especially those he has forgotten.

He wipes a tear off his face, and mentally thanks this Impossible Girl, saving him from impossible situations.

He frowns. Why does it seem so familiar?

  
  



End file.
